Poetry Archives

Sunday, November 14, 2010

For the Poetry Train this week, here's a teaser from my current NaNo manuscript, currently at 23,000 words.

This is a found poem taken from my prose work-in-progress. It introduces the Lady Elysande, the noblewoman who takes the adult Scorpius - featured each Saturday in my serialized fiction - to work for her as her chamberlain when he is released from captivity along with her cousin, a hostage of a rival royal family.

The events of this poem take place in Elysande's young childhood and just as she comes into womanhood, as a youth. But it's narrated by the man in her life, Xaviero, the captain of the guard at her family's estate. For readers of my Weekend Writer's Retreat, Xaviero is a figure from Richolf's storyline.

He'd shifted his weight thenMoving smoothly from a crouchTo a kneeling position

“I know exactlyWhat I’m asking you to do,” she said now

He shook his head“You don’t know what I’veDone to people, Elysande.”

“I’m beginning toGet the idea.” He gaspedWhen she took his faceIn her handsForced him to lookInto her eyesWith the merest tug

“You knew about meFrom that very first dayIn the barracks yard."

He wincedAs if she’d struck him

“Well, you weren’t the only one.I knew something about you, too.I didn’t know what to make of it.”

He tried to shake his head, butShe wouldn’t let himShe squeezed his face harderHis eyes grew large with dread

“Nurse has already discovered thingsAbout you, hasn’t she, my lady?”He'd asked on that first dayHe'd bowed his headAs though he were her servantAnd not a man who commanded a garrison“She once suspectedThere was something about youBut it frightened herAnd – dear thing – she loved you,Didn’t she?Didn’t want her sweet little darlingTo be taken away.”

“Who would take me away?”She'd blurted out.

“I won’t lie to you, lady.Powerful peopleWould take you away.Have you put to death.”

Tears had welled and shimmeredIn her eyesXaviero had reached his fingerTo wipe them from her cheeksHe'd opened his armsShe'd all but leaped into them

His body now trembledTrembled with the knowledgeThat it was finally overThere was to be no more waiting

“I think it’s safestThat we keep this to ourselves,"He'd said on that first dayCradling her into his shoulder

“How do you know about me?”She'd asked finallyShe'd pushed backSo she could gaze into his eyes

“I’ve been different, too,” he'd said“In my way.”

“Always?”

He'd nodded

“And now?”

Now she smiled at himSo sweetlyShe was like an angelAn angel of vengeanceSent to make him pay

He could barely seePast thick tearsHe didn’t need to see anythingNot in this momentOf complete surrender

“The proof, you mean?The proof of my sins?Oh, I’ve got enough of thoseI’ve got enough sins rolling around in hereTo keep us busy for a century.”

Sunday, October 17, 2010

It's a backstory poem for my falconer character, Richolf, who is featured in my serialized Saturday fiction. I was just brainstorming his storyline over the weekend at my annual real-life writer's retreat at White Point Beach, Nova Scotia.

Cowering in ceaseless darkHe didn't know what was worseThe waitingThe knowledge there was no more waitingThe tiny flame of hopeThe hopelessnessThe weight of iron on his wristsThe moment of weightlessnessThe sound of their footsteps coming for himThe silence of solitaryWere they coming with food?Would they drag him down the corridor?Would they break something?Would he beg them to stop?He didn't know what was worseThe memory of his cries, his screamsOr the knowledge there were more lurking inside of himIt was hard to sayHard to know what was worseIt was all worseHe could see no way outThere was no courage leftFor the next time he heard their footstepsFor the next time the keys clicked in the lockBut he was so hungrySo thirstyMaybe he heard somethingMaybe they would bring him somethingHe had to ride the turbulent hope and dreadHe had no choiceThe iron pressed down on his wristsThe cold seeped up from the stonesThe bruises ached from the last timeHis stomach growledHe hoped they arrived soonHe hoped he never saw them againHe couldn't take much moreHow long did it take to go mad?Or was it already too late?

Things in my roomA framed collage of The Arts, signed by the photographerA framed Taming of the Shrew ballet poster signed by the featured dancerA dry-mounted poster for my 4th year film screening, including 'Exposed Film' tape to secure the date & time of screening

Things in my roomA pile of photocopied pictures featuring the actor-muses for my fictional heroes from last year's writing retreatThe 'Bravo!' card featuring a single pink rose that Brad gave me when I finished my very first NaNoWriMoA pile of paperbacks written by fellow members of my writer's group

Perhaps the vision is tooMisty to grasp in my handsPerhaps the words are muffledDrawing me further in and around the corner

Maybe the climb is still steepBut at least I have those mountaineering clipsPerhaps I run out of day before I run out of doneThis journey becomes more soothing, revealings its own joys, its own insights